The Reminiscences of a Muggle Correspondent
by horacethepig
Summary: The Ministry of Magic has fallen again. The true Ministry is in exile. Luna Scamander has asked The Quibbler's muggle correspondent for some accounts from his famous battered exercise books. Well, here are the Phantom Piper of Loch Ness, strange doings at Whittington Castle, the Return of the Hound of the Baskervilles and more, all told in Rex Milligan's unique style.
1. Chapter 1: A New Career

The rights to Rex Milligan belong to the late Anthony Buckeridge. Those to Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling. Other rights belong to Marvel Comics, DC Comics/Warner Brothers/Hanna-Barbera, Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz, the BBC, Jim Butcher, Mike Mignola, Chelsea Cain, Joss Whedon, Terrance Dicks, the estates of the late Enid Blyton, the late Charles Addams, the late Malcolm Saville, the late Ian Fleming, the late Peter O'Donnell, the late H.P. Lovecraft and more. I own nothing and make claim to the same nothing.

This is Rex Milligan reporting. Well, not exactly reporting per se in this case. Luna thought that while we are in exile over the pond, thanks to those odious oiks who escaped from Azkaban and took over the wizard world, it would be good to publish some first-hand experiences that I have recorded in my infamous battered exercise books at various times over the years. As usual, Mrs Scamander got her way! Between you and me, I don't know how she does it. Probably those eyes!

In any event, Quibbler readers, here are selections from my wealth of experience in journalism from an inky-fingered junior to a rather less inky-fingered veteran… Before we begin, however, I generally recorded my narratives in note-form (later shorthand) and wrote them up fully shortly afterwards. I have endeavoured to maintain the original reports, but have added some Author's Notes where I felt that clarification of muggle terminology or nods to more recent history were required.

London, January 1965

"Good to see you, Milligan!" That great foghorn of a voice was unmistakeable. I turned to see my old modern languages master from my days at Sheldrake Grammar, the Frizzer, or Mr Frisby to give his actual name.

Mr Frisby hadn't changed much in the three-and-a-half years since I had finished at Sheldrake. A giant of a chap still, with an outsized moustache from his days in the RAF. You can't help liking the man.

"Good evening, sir. Doing some shopping after school?!"

"Yes, I'm taking these groceries to Old Faithful and then back home."

Old Faithful is Mr Frisby's vintage car, a ye olde relic from the days of the horseless carriage, when cars were made with character and little discernible suspension. She rumbles along at about fifteen mph, until she daintily decides that she has had quite enough exercise for the time being. The Frizzer was forever offering his students lifts home, which usually meant pushing the prefabricated death-trap most of the way. Good practice for the rugby scrum, if nothing else.

"What are you doing with yourself now, young Milligan?"

"I graduated from Cambridge last year, sir, with an Upper Second in English. The local paper has just taken me on as a trainee journalist. I'm on my way to my digs."

"Really? Splendid, Milligan, splendid! Mr Birkinshaw and I both thought you had it in you to make a good reporter.

"Where are your digs?" I told him. "That's on my way. Fancy a lift?"

Old Faithful was very good, only stopping three times on the five-minute journey to my digs. When we arrived, I was surprised to see Jigger waiting there, alongside two other people I didn't recognise.

Jigger, or J.I.G. Johnson, has been my best friend since we were both eleven. He's shorter than me, but rather stockier in build, with red hair to my black.

"Hello, Rex, sir. Old Faithful still running, I see." That last statement wasn't entirely true. Old Faithful was more of a walker than a runner – and generally couldn't even do that unaided.

"Good to see you, Johnson. Are you a journalist like Milligan now?"

"No, sir. I'm a biologist." No surprise there. Jigger attracts animals. The fiercest of canine delinquents wag their tails happily at him. Birds break out into melodious song the second he appears. He loves them all and they love him in return. The chap even has a pet monkey. Seriously, he is called Ranji. The monkey, I mean, not Jigger. Very few Londoners can say that!

"Good to see you, Jig," I remarked, after the Frizzer had driven off on his not-so-trusty steed. "Who are these people?"

"Well, Rex, this is Jonathan Warrender," a lanky man of our age with spectacles and a mop of untidy blonde hair, "and this is Georgina Kirrin, but call her George if you want to live." George is a dark-haired lady, again of our age, with a decidedly tomboyish manner.

"You do run with some _exalted people_ , Jig! A Lone Piner and a member of the Famous Five, no less.

"What brings you to my humble abode? I'm not a no-longer juvenile sleuth…"

"We caught a thief and that dodgy car dealer," Jigger reminded me.

"More by luck than judgement! Our main speciality was causing chaos, however much we tried not to."

"Mr Milligan," Jon Warrender began, trying and failing to straighten his hair.

"Rex, please."

"Rex, it is then. I'm Jon. What do you know about modern science?"

"There's a load of Yanks and a gang of Soviets trying to reach the moon. The atom has been split.

"Please don't tell me the Staggers has invented something that _actually works_!" J.O. Stagg was an old classmate of mine and Jigger's. Moon-faced and bespectacled, with a rich and plummy voice deployed in a manner that suggested he was speaking entirely in capital letters, the Staggers had a penchant for attempting to solve problems no-one had with inventions that never worked. I still have nightmares about the land yacht that sank on her maiden voyage, nearly drowning Staggers, Jigger and me. All because he forgot to replace the plug in the old bathtub he was using as a chassis…

"No, Rex, that would be miraculous!" laughed Jigger.

"Psychic research!" blurted out George.

" _Come again?!_ _Petrified Paintpots!_ Jigger, I thought you were studying biology to look after sheep, not examine their entrails! It is not like you to give an ear to such preposterous poppycock. Honestly, I ask you…?"

"It's not like that," George continued. "Look, most supposed haunted houses or flying saucers turn out to have normal explanations. Others are used to conceal criminal activity. We know that.

"But, Rex, if I can call you that, there are _other instances_. We were contacted by an organisation called the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defence. At their headquarters in the US, we saw _things_ that defy all rational explanation.

"With that in mind, the three of us decided to start the Paranormal Investigations Bureau. If there is a rational explanation, then Jon as a physicist, Jigger a biologist and myself a chemist should find it, particularly given Jon and I having experience in trailing suspicious characters. We also, believe, however, we can identify a genuine ghost, witch, demon or alien.

"What we need, however, is someone to apply a journalist's eye to events, who can record our findings in a readable way. Jon and Jigger suggested using you and, once he's old enough, Richard Morton to use your journalistic skills to drip-feed to the public the idea that science might be evolving to allow the unearthly to be properly researched."

"I don't know, err, Miss…"

"George would be fine."

"George, you can indeed call me Rex.

"Are you asking me to join your intrepid band of mad scientists? As an Arts student…"

"No, Rex," Jigger assured me, "just to keep in touch about areas of mutual interest."

"Fair enough.

"Now where are my manners?! Come into my humble lodgings, one and all!"

I wonder what I've agreed to? One things for sure. If it involves Jigger and me, insanity will ensue! If nothing else, I seem to have gained a couple of new friends.

10 Downing Street, May 1966

"I suppose that you all wonder why I've called you all here?"

Well, yes, I had not previously met Harold Wilson, so being invited for tea at the official residence of the Prime Minister was rather unexpected. Jigger was also present, as were the Famous Five, Secret Seven, Lone Pine Club, the crews of the _Swallow_ and the _Amazon_ and more.

"Do you know Nancy Drew?" A woman with red-gold hair who looked about twenty came over. She certainly matched the classic description, apart from one obvious detail…

"Nancy Drew must be at least fifty by now," George protested. "Her career began a few years after the War. The _First One_!"

"She must be our age _at the youngest_ ," Nancy Walker nee Blackett agreed. The captain of the _Amazon_ had married her counterpart from the _Swallow_ some years before and they now have a four-child crew of their own.

" _I_ helped with that," a tall hawk-nosed man said, emerging from the shadows. "A supply of the Royal Jelly honey can work wonders.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes…"

Well, that caused a right hoo-hah, as you can imagine. The man didn't look thirty, let alone in his twelfth decade!

To be fair to Mr Holmes, he did provide an explanation. The Holmes siblings (at least three brothers and a sister, although some accounts suggest more of both genders) had discovered that by exposing bees to radiated meteoric rocks from near the family estate up in Yorkshire and the pollen of a very specialised flower, the Royal Jelly honey could be cultivated. This works as a veritable Fountain of Youth, making old Sherlock look more like 28 than 112. I give you the gist of what he said anyway. If anyone wants to know the ins and outs, Jon, George and Jigger would be better placed to provide the exact details which were rather more than my poor brain can cope with.

Well, the proof of the pudding, as they say, was in the eating. Timothy (or Timmy), George's dog, and MacBeth (or Mackie), the Lone Piners' venerable Scottie, are both very elderly by canine standards. Mr Holmes gave both dogs a canine variant of the jelly. The effect was miraculous! Both dogs looked much younger instantly and both started acting with an energy that I had never seen before. Brock, the Lone Piners' younger black dachshund, was given a lesser dose and he and Mackie were quickly playing like a couple of puppies, with Timmy soon joining in. Before long, with the Secret Seven's dog Scamper and the Five Find-Outers' canine Buster, plus Jigger's monkey Ranji and Jack Trent's parrot Kiki all rejuvenated, the place was starting to resemble the children's section of London Zoo!

John and Nancy Walker quickly volunteered to try the human version. Both were quickly looking only a few years older than their elder children. They seemed delighted, although their decidedly non-verbal celebration went on rather too long. The Lone Piners started shouting "From Loyalty to Love!" As the Lone Piners tend to live up to their "Always be true to each other whatever happens" motto by falling in love with a fellow member, I guess they would know. We didn't at Sheldrake. It is an all-boys school, mind you, which may explain it. That sort of thing being illegal and all. _[AN: In Muggle England and Wales, male homosexual acts were decriminalised in July 1967, in Scotland in February 1981 and in Northern Ireland in December 1982. We've come a long way since I made this entry, with England, Wales and Scotland having legally-recognised same-sex marriages now. RM.]_

"Mr Holmes," I asked politely, "this indeed is most generous of you. I must ask a couple of questions, though.

 _"_ _Why us? Where does Nancy Drew come into this?_ "

"Gee, what do you know of me?"

"Well, Miss Drew, or is it Mrs Nickerson now?!"

"Well, Ned and I are married, but I use my maiden name professionally. Just call me Nancy!"

"Thank you. Well, Nancy, you are the only daughter of the distinguished lawyer Carson Drew. When you were three, your mother died. Given both that and your father's work commitments, Hannah Gruen, your father's housekeeper, basically raised you. In your teens, you gained a reputation for solving crimes alongside your best friends, the cousins Bess Marvin and George Frayne, and your long-term boyfriend, now spouse, Ned Nickerson.

"More recently, you regularly meet up with your fellow former teen sleuths, brothers Frank and Joe Hardy from Bayport…"

"Ned and I do rather more than _meet up_ with Frank Hardy! We're on much more _intimate terms_ than that!"

" _Come again?!_ _Fossilised Fishhooks!_ Actually, I don't want to know!" _[AN: I am very happy to report that Frank, Ned and Nancy are still very happy together, but I prefer not to know the, err, mechanics of their relationship. That is why so many of the accounts of them teaming up hint that Nancy and Frank have a flirtatious relationship and omit Ned entirely. Apparently, "classic American jocks" aren't bisexual, or weren't then anyway. Nancy coming across as playing the field is deemed acceptable by the publishers, who, regardless of whether they are also jocks, clearly aren't gentlemen. RM]_

"Mr Milligan," Sherlock Holmes said, "after the Bobbseys, Miss Drew and the Hardy brothers, have there been _other such young sleuths, scientists and the like in America?_ "

"Hasn't there just?! Penny Parker, the Swifts, the Dana girls, Kay Tracey, Cherry Ames, Encyclopaedia Brown, Trixie Belden and now those three in Rocky Beach, California. Even that is just the tip of the iceberg! But my question remains…"

"The government of the United States often like to recruit us of the magnifying glass community. Are you a magnifying glass man, Mr Milligan?"

"Call me Rex. Actually, I'm a notebook and pen man."

"A Doctor Watson?"

"Let's just say I'm in Penny Parker's _other_ line of work."

" _A journalist!_ Began as a teen?"

"Not professionally, but I started recording the madness of school life in my Fourth Form at Sheldrake Grammar." _And it was mad! Jigger and I never tried to find chaos, but it always found us!_

"Neat!

"Well, during the War, it was found that we former teen sleuths had developed a number of skills that were useful in the realms of espionage, counter-espionage, special forces work and the rest. I mean we all had experience of finding clues, trailing suspects, self-defence and escapology already."

"I see," David Morton, the Lone Piners' long-term leader, agreed. "Those skills would come in handy. I take it that you were provided with the Royal Jelly honey in return for government service from time to time."

"You got it, sweetie!" David didn't seem too bothered, but Petronella "Peter" Morton nee Sterling, his wife and fellow Lone Piner, did glare at Nancy. You couldn't blame her, given Nancy's bombshell a few moments before. Having said that, they are a God-fearing lot, the Lone Piners. Very much into "moral rearmament" and that sort of thing. Even if he hadn't been in love with Peter pretty much ever since they met as teenagers, David was as likely to commit adultery as I would be to cheat at rugby or cricket. To be fair to Nancy, she and her husband were hardly – well, cheating on each other _per se_. I suspect that this will be under at least the fifty-year rule, so at least I shouldn't have to worry about publishing this and ruining the reputation of Nancy and her beaus. _[AN: The fifty-year rule basically stated that government records not otherwise in the public domain should not be "available for public inspection" (i.e. reading for anyone not some hush-hush type high up in Whitehall) for a minimum of fifty years, hence rather obviously the name. It was reduced to thirty years (with some exceptions) in 1967. Now, thanks to the 2000 Freedom of Information Act and the 2010 Constitutional Reform and Governance Act, much more information is freely available unless it is particularly sensitive, with most government information being available after twenty years. Harry Potter tells me that Kingsley Shacklebolt has tried to get similar laws passed in Wizard Britain, but neither the Ministry nor the Wizengamot seem quite as keen. Now there's a surprise! RM]_

"So," David continued, "presumably the British government want to offer us the same deal. Eternal youth for services rendered?"

"That is the idea, Mr Morton," Mr Holmes agreed. "What do you say?"

This was a trickier decision than you might imagine. As most of us are twenty-somethings, being de-aged to twenty-somethings isn't all that enticing. Many of us (mainly the Lone Piners) have moral or spiritual objections to immortality as well. On the other hand, the thought of never being apart from your spouse or children would be enticing to anyone. At least, that's what I'm told. The right woman has yet to show up, so I lack practical experience. _[AN: She still hasn't. RM]_

We all accepted in the end. Our Queen and country need us! What else could we do?!


	2. Chapter 2: The Phantom Piper

Castle Urquhart, on the banks of Loch Ness, Scottish Highlands, late Summer 1976

The shrill lament of a lone piper, well, piping sounded from somewhere afar through the ruined castle. There is something unearthly about the sound. Probably just some protest about Culloden, Solway Moss, Flodden, or wherever else our boys gave their boys what for on the battlefield. _[AN: At Culloden, almost as many Scots fought with Butcher Cumberland as with the Bonnie Prince and some Englishmen fought for the Jacobite cause, so it wasn't exactly "them versus us". It was after all to decide whether Great Britain would be ruled by a German or an Italian! RM]_

Castle Urquhart is not just a ye olde ruin that Oliver Cromwell or whomever knocked about a bit (with cannon and not fists!). It is also _the_ spot to look for the most famous local resident. Nessie was so far being shy today, all of them. Yes, all of them! "Nessie" can mean one or more from a couple of aliens, a handful of evolved freshwater plesiosaurs and a few large bipedal crocodilians capable of speaking a passable imitation of Scots, although that last lot by decree of their matriarch do not get involved with humans. _[AN: Back then, we didn't have the same opportunities (or any, come to think of it) to liaise with wizards and learn that a kelpie, the largest and least publicity-shy on record, also lives in Loch Ness. The matriarch of the crocodilians has relaxed her policy too. Jon, George, Jigger and I have the whistles made from thistles that she gives to favoured humans to gain help or assistance when near Loch Ness. Yes, thistle whistles! Well, she is Scottish! RM]_

These all seem to get along, and there is plenty of fish from small species to large pikes to feed them. There is also beautiful scenery and plenty of bracing fresh air. What more could a monster need?

Every so often, I go up with Jon, George and Jigger to ensure the various more unusual inhabitants of the Loch are behaving themselves. Jon brings his wife and fellow Lone Piner Penny with him. She is the co-owner and manageress of the _Gay Dolphin Hotel_ in Rye Royal, but can leave the establishment in her assistant manager's capable hands for a few days. Jigger had left Ranji and the rest of his vast menagerie in the capable hands of Boko Phipps, a close friend from our Sheldrake days. A worthy character, Boko, intelligent and reliable. George had left Timmy with her cousin Dick and his wife Jo.

" _Jinkies!_ What are you all doing here?" _Well, I ask you…?_ What did she _think_ a team of paranormal researchers and the British Kolchak would be doing on the banks of Loch Ness?! _[AN: Carl Kolchak was an American reporter who also had a reputation for dealing with the strange and unearthly. RM]_

"Good to see you too, Velma," I replied. "We are keeping an eye on the _larger denizens of the peaty depths of the Loch!_ "

I think that you would like Velma Dinkley. She is a short bespectacled brunette from Crystal Cove over in the States, very much what they would call "the class nerd" and we "the school swot". Velma is a founder member of Mystery Inc., a group of mystery-solving teens with access to the Royal Jelly honey in exchange for helping the US government out of the odd roof-level hoo-hah. Mystery Inc., consists of Velma, Fred Jones, Daphne Blake, Norville "Shaggy" Rogers and Scooby-Doo, their genetically-engineered Great Dane. Yes, really! He can speak English, well, _American English_ , with a weird accent that makes it sound as if most words begin with an "R", as well as walk on just his hind legs with comparative ease. His front paws have opposable big toes so he can use them as thumbs. Both Shaggy and Scooby have large stomachs and minimal tolerances for fear. Fred is a handsome sporty type, who is the usual leader. Daphne is a beautiful red-haired journalist, with a knack for finding dire peril that rivals mine for finding chaos. They travel around in a garishly-coloured camper van called the _Mystery Machine_ , revealing that inconveniently-timed hauntings were all due to vengeful sacked caretakers or dodgy estate agents in Halloween costumes. I like them all, although Fred can be a bit bossy at times.

"There's a reunion for Clan Blake starting in a couple of days," Jon noted. "I take it Daphne's going to be attending?" Considering Daphne and Fred were engaged, he would obviously be invited too. Given that Mystery Inc. were a tight-knit bunch, the other three would also come as a package deal. _[AN: Mystery Inc. are still going strong and Fred and Daphne are still affianced. Yes, it has been a forty-year plus betrothal. Get on with it, the pair of you! RM]_

"That's it, Jon. Daphne's ancestral home, Blake Castle, is on the other side of the Loch. Her cousin Shannon Blake invited us. We're early, so Daphne suggested a visit to Castle Urquhart.

"You guys are wincing. Didn't I say it right?"

"Sorry, Velma," Jigger said apologetically. "Even we English know it is pronounced 'Err-Cut', not 'Err-Que-Hart'!"

" _Oops! Jinkies!_ Sorry! I'll tell Daphne that she needs to learn the local place names better, including the pronunciations.

"Well, here she and Fred come now."

If ever a couple could be described as handsome, it was this one. Fred is a tall and muscular blonde, whilst Daphne is a tall pretty redhead, fashionably dressed as always. Behind them came Shaggy, a gangly light brunette with a pointed chin and what may be politely-termed a goatee beard (or less charitably stubble). The massive black-spotted brown form of Scooby-Doo padded along beside him.

"Holiday, Rex?" Daphne asked.

"A busman's one, my fellow reporter. We are ensuring that the monsters are behaving themselves."

" _Zoinks!_ " Shaggy exclaimed.

" _Ronsters?! Raggy! Relp!_ " Scooby-Doo added. You can see what I mean about the R sound.

"Oh, they are harmless, unless you hurt them," Jigger assured him. _Well, he is Jigger! The plesiosaurs adore him._

"Well, we have to meet up with cousin Shannon," Daphne said. "Why don't you come along? This Castle Urquhart may be romantic, but it sure is in awful condition!" Well, she is right there. Heavy artillery isn't best suited for home improvements! Once she had been informed as to the correct way to pronounce "Urquhart", we agreed.

Cousin Shannon was more than similar enough to Daphne for the family resemblance to be obvious. The Scotswoman's red hair was cut rather shorter than her American relative and obviously they had very different accents. There's nothing like those Scots rolling r's.

"Be ye welcome to Blake Castle, all of ye," Shannon said. "We offer real Highland Hospitality. Do ye like haggis?

" _Ach,_ if it were not for the Phantom Piper scaring everyone away, this place would be full of Blakes coming for the Great Clan Gathering."

" _A phantom piper?!_ Do you hear that, gang? A mystery!" Fred is never one to let a possible mystery go unsolved.

"Not being hard of hearing," Penny noted, "we heard her!" Jon gave her the nickname "Newpenny", because her bright red hair resembled the colour of the copper new penny coin. She is generally a kindly sort with a megawatt smile, but she does have the notorious redheads' temper.

"What is this 'phantom piper', Cousin Shannon?" Daphne asked.

"Have ye no heard the old family legend? There was a piper from Clan Blake who played and fought for Bonnie Dundee…"

" _At_ , surely?" Daphne asked.

Jon looked at her strangely. "Not the city, Daphne! Sir John Graham of Claverhouse, First Viscount Dundee, led the 1689 Jacobite Rising, on behalf of his old friend, the recently deposed James II of England and VII of Scotland. He died of wounds sustained in his victory over the Redcoats at the Battle of Killiecrankie." He may be a son of East Sussex on the South Coast of England, but Jon is as good at history as he is at science. Very much the scholastic type with a supersonic brain.

"Aye, that's the man! Ye ken a lot for a Sassenach!

"Anyhow, Robert Blake fell at the pass o' Killiecrankie. His ghost returned home, where he plays his spectral pipes ere misfortune hit the clan.

"Now we hae heard the pipes at night and seen his ghost. Ruin is at hand. _Ach,_ we are such a danger-prone clan…" Daphne coming from a danger-prone family?! I would never have guessed…

At that point, a haunting bagpipe lament came from the courtyard. We all rushed to the windows and looked down to see a spectral kilted highlander playing an ancient lament on his pipes. After a few minutes, he vanished.

"Come on, gang! Time to search for _clues!_ " Fred is obsessed with hunting for possible clues. "I'll take Daphne. Velma, you take Shaggy and Scooby…"

" _No!_ "

" _Ro Ray, Rosé!_ "

Shaggy Rogers and Scooby-Doo aren't exactly the most courageous of types, as I mentioned earlier.

"Come on, guys," Velma said. "I've got _Scooby snacks!_ " These are a type of dog biscuit used to bribe Scooby (and Shaggy!) into acting against their own natures and participating in the current adventure.

"What about us?" George asked.

"Do your usual routines," Daphne told us, "then we all meet up back here later."

"Oh, and one more thing," I asked Shannon, "have you fired a caretaker named Smith, Brown or the like recently?"

" _Aye_ , we fired a ghillie, a Mr Gordon, the other week. He was a nasty piece o' work and was cheating his parties at the hunt out of their hard-earned cash. For all his skills as a piper and deerstalker, we finally had enough o' the man."

"Why don't we go and see this Mr Gordon," I suggested. "He seems the obvious suspect…"

"Mystery Inc looks for _clues_!" Fred interjected swiftly. "Then we collate our findings, I set a trap with Shaggy and Scooby as bait and the mystery is solved."

Fred has his own ideas on how to investigate a possible haunting, which he follows quasi-religiously. To be fair, they get results. I asked Shannon if she had a photograph of Mr Gordon, which she did. He was deerstalking and looked a rugged outdoorsman, but also in a roof-level bate.

Whilst Mystery Inc set out to, err, _look for clues_ , Penny and I watched Jigger, George and Jon check their various instruments, peer at the floor and walls through magnifying glasses and use tweezers to take samples. Finally, they nodded at each other and came over to join us. We then went back up to the same room as before. Fred and Daphne joined us later, with Velma, Shaggy and Scooby arriving in a supersonic rush a few minutes after them.

" _Zoinks!_ " Shaggy exclaimed. "The Phantom Piper found us and chased after us. We should leave. _Like now!_ "

"Reah! Reave Row!"

" _Aww!_ Come on, guys. We must have some _clues!_ "

"There is this sticky substance that we found everywhere…" Velma began.

"As did we," George replied. "I've analysed it and can tell you that it is a phosphoric paint. Just the thing to make a living piper glow in the dark!"

"There he goes again!" Daphne cried, looking down through the window into the courtyard. Indeed, the pipes were blaring once more.

Now, I must admit to not having a supersonic brain, but something occurred to me. "Hang on, he's playing _Flower of Scotland_."

" _Aye_ ," Shannon confirmed, "he is! What of it?"

"Scottish folk music isn't my strong point, but that song was written within the last decade or so. I can't believe the ghost of someone killed in 1689 is an avid viewer of _The Old Grey Whistle Test!_ " _[AN: Given that all mages support Scotland at rugby (due to the Scottish squib Angus Buchanan having played in the first ever rugby international between Scotland and England), you may be interested to know Flower of Scotland, the song sung so lustily from the Murrayfield terraces, was written in 1967 by the late Roy Williamson of the folk duo The Corries. RM]_

"You don't think he is a ghost?!"

"As quick on the uptake as ever, Fred!" I'm not entirely sure that Fred realised Penny was being sarcastic.

"Right, let's get a good night's sleep, gang. Tomorrow I set a trap!"

After we had returned to our hotel, slept and had a full Scottish breakfast, the Warrenders, George, Jigger and myself returned to Blake Castle. Mystery Inc had bed and breakfast at the castle. I can't imagine what Mystery Inc made of black pudding, lorne sausage and tattie scones, but felt it impolite to ask.

Fred's trap consisted of netting, ropes, pullies, several hunting trophies and a grandfather clock. To be perfectly frank, it looked like something Staggers would have invented!

"Now, Shaggy, Scooby, I want you to lead the ghost here. Once there, I will pull this cord and the net will swing down and scoop him up.

"Everyone clear?"

After several bribes with Scooby snacks, Shaggy and Scooby set off in full Highland dress playing what I think was supposed to be _Scotland the Brave_ on the bagpipes, but quite frankly could have been _Pop Goes the Weasel_. Fifteen minutes and several shouts of " _Zoinks!_ " and " _Raggy! Relp!_ " later, the duo entered the baronial grand hall at full pelt, the Phantom Piper behind them, playing "Scottish Soldier".

" _Now!_ " Fred called, as he pulled the cord, which pulled other cords around the clock, past the antlers and along the pulleys, swooping up in the net – _everyone but the Phantom Piper, Daphne and Shannon!_

Below us, the Phantom Piper produced a decidedly modern-looking automatic pistol and gestured for Daphne and Shannon to put their hands in the air. They did so and he then gestured for them to lead him out of the hall.

" _Jinkies!_ Daphne and Shannon are being kidnapped." Velma sighed, once the captives had been forced out of the room. "That's our dear danger-prone Daphne!"

"Meanwhile, thanks to her addle-pated clodpoll of a fiancé," I added, "we are stuck up here!"

"Not necessarily, Rex!" Penny crowed. "I can just reach down to an old spear on the wall. Now, Jon, how's your bowling arm?"

With a throw of the spear to cut one of the cords, we were deposited onto the floor in an undignified and slightly painful heap.

" _My glasses! I can't see without my glasses!_ " Jigger retrieved Velma's glasses from where they had landed after falling off her in our descent. "Thanks, Jigger! I owe you one!"

We ran out of the castle and saw a speedboat starting out into the loch. The Phantom Piper was at the motor, with Daphne and Shannon bound and gagged in the back.

"They are getting away!" Fred called.

"Well, unless you can outswim a speedboat," George grumbled, "I would say there is a good chance of that!"

Suddenly the boat seemed to strike something! A form rose out of the depths.

" ** _Mind where ye are going, ye wee numpty!_** " The khaki bipedal crocodilian was clearly in a bate! Not that I could blame him.

" _Zoinks!_ It's the Loch Ness Monster!"

"Well, one of them," Jigger noted. "Ferocious Ness, I think. _Crystallised Cheesecakes!_ " _[AN: Despite his name (and penchant for scaring tourists!), Ferocious Ness is friendly enough once you get to know him. RM]_

Ferocious Ness picked the boat up and placed it on the shore by the castle, before disappearing into the depths, still muttering about careless mariners. We ran down to the boat, Jon and Jigger grabbing the phantom, whilst I used my penknife to cut the cords around Daphne and Shannon's wrists and ankles and Velma untied the cloths gagging them.

"Now," said Fred with a flourish, "to reveal who this really is!" He stood beside the Phantom Piper and pulled off a phosphoric painted mask to reveal – Mr Gordon the sacked Ghillie! Following my plan at the start would have saved so much time, but admittedly been much less fun.

The police were called. They handcuffed Mr Gordon and were leading him away. "And I would have got away with it too," he grumbled, "if it wasn't for those meddling kids and their dog, not to mention the Loch Ness Monster!"

Shannon treated us all to a traditional Highland haggis supper that evening, followed by a ceilidh. It was fun dancing and chatting.

"This is the life, Scoob!" Shaggy exulted, tucking into a Scotch egg on the buffet table during a break in the dancing.

"Right, Raggy! _Scooby-Dooby-Doo…!_ "

I smiled as I overheard this. Mystery Inc may be a source of chaos to rival me, but you can't help liking them all the same.


	3. Chapter 3: Folk Tales and Demons

Shrewsbury, Shropshire, Autumn 1985

We were standing in an antiquarian bookshop. The place had been vandalised badly. Nothing unusual, but something had piqued the interest of UNIT. _[AN: The Unified Intelligence Taskforce was and is the main defence humanity has against extra-terrestrial invasion. These are rather more frequent than you might expect! RM]_

"I don't know what you need us for," Jigger remarked to the UNIT Captain. "A few of Jon's old Lone Pine Club friends live in Shropshire. They are more than capable of dealing with some hoodlum."

"Possibly," Jon agreed. "That does beg the question though, Jig, as to why this attracted the attention of UNIT."

"I can't imagine some alien came several light years just to vandalise a bookshop!" George agreed.

"I can help with that," came a voice from the back of the shop. We turned and saw a tall, powerfully-built man with thick red hair with a streak of white through the middle.

"I called in UNIT," the man continued, "because a number of priceless tomes were stolen from here by Klarion the Witch Boy and his cat familiar Teekl.

"By the way, my name is Jason Blood. I am an authority on demonology and the dark lore."

"If you are after people to fight demons," Jon noted, "the BPRD have an operative who specialises in that sort of thing."

"Oh, I know about Hellboy," Mr Blood assured us. "Don't worry. I have my own methods for fighting Klarion and Teekl…"

George looked at him strangely. "We'll take your word for it. Meanwhile, what was stolen?"

"A rare translation of the _Necronomicon_ and a text concerning the site of the lost tomb of Merddyn. He thinks he can bypass the protective enchantments, or can break the binding. Not that the tomb is the right Merddyn's…" He trailed off, as if he had said too much. There was a haunted look to him. _[AN: Since Jason Blood and his, err, associate are widely feared by mages, the reasons for his reaction should be obvious in a way they weren't to us at that point. RM]_

"Where do we find him?" George wanted to know.

"At Whittington, in the Welsh Marches," we were told, "is what he seeks. We need to get there fast!"

For those not familiar with the English side of the border with Wales, it is a land of myth and legend, where Caractacus made his last stand against the Roman army and the celebrated noble outlaw Fulke FitzWarin was dispossessed of his estates by bad King John. Well, he was celebrated, until most of his exploits (like those of many a medieval outlaw) were reattributed to Robin Hood. Fulke's seat was at Whittington Castle, overlooking the village of Whittington, our destination. They say that Fulke found the Holy Grail and had it kept in the chapel. Since both castle and chapel have long since fallen into ruin and the grail is long-lost, no-one knows for certain.

"Well, we had best get moving," Jon noted, "but before we do…" He headed off to find a telephone box.

"What is he doing?" the UNIT Captain (an American, one Homer Judge, a descendent of Matthew and Caitlin Judge, the latter of whom was partly responsible for causing a notorious train crash in late Victorian Whitechapel) asked.

"Calling for reinforcements!" I told him. "He's got an old friend from the Lone Piners who's an expert on Shropshire folklore…"

I think that you would like both Tom Ingles and his wife Jenny (nee Harman). Tom is short and slight in build with dark hair and ruddy cheeks, who was orphaned as a child and sent to live with his Uncle and Aunt on their farm in the Shropshire valleys. Now he has inherited the farm and he, Jenny and their children run it successfully as a cottage industry. Despite his build, he is a strong, powerful man with a left hook many an opponent of the Lone Piners has come to respect.

Jenny is also short and slight, but with red hair. If Tom is a practical sort with a keen sense of humour, then his wife is a dreamy romantic, with a taste for soppy novels. She also loves the folklore of the local area. Now she is an acclaimed collector and editor of the traditional tales and ballads that she loves so much.

Tom and Jenny arrived in an old farm truck. Over dinner in a local pub, Jon asked her what she knew about Whittington Castle.

"It was said to be based on the site of an earlier Dark Age castle, Jon," Jenny began. "Some say it was the retirement home of Merddyn, Arthur's wizard. Others believe it was where Percival and Galahad found the Holy Grail.

"Whatever the truth, there _is_ evidence of a large pre-Roman Iron Age hillfort nearby. This does seem to have been reoccupied in the early Dark Ages, when Arthur is believed to have lived. Given this, the stories of Fulke finding the Holy Grail nearby might have some basis in fact.

"Fulke himself, of course, the third of his line, lay claim to the lordship of Whittington through his descent from William Peverell, the aristocrat who originally fortified the Norman manor house there. It had since first fallen into the hands of the Prince Madog ap Maredudd of Powys and then been granted to Roger de Powys by Henry II once it was recaptured after the death of Madog and his eldest son. In 1197, Fulke tried to gain his rightful inheritance as he saw it, but was refused by King John. Between April 1201 and November 1203, he was an outlaw in open rebellion against the crown. Fulke was pardoned by John at that time and granted the lordship of Whittington. After the death of John, Fulke seems to have been outlawed and dispossessed by the Crown during the minority of King Henry III in 1216, before being fully pardoned and restored in 1218. Other than for a brief period in the 1220s when the castle and town both fell into the hands of Llywelyn the Great, Prince of Gwynedd, he retained the lordship until his death of natural causes in 1258, probably in his late 90s.

"According to the legend, Fulke was bored of a quiet life at home for once. He rather sounds the type to be bored by domesticity, doesn't he! Anyway, he went on a quest and claimed to have found an item called the Marian Chalice, in which Mary Magdalene caught a few drops of Jesus' blood whilst preparing him for burial. This is one of the objects that became collectively known as the Grail Hallows. The sword that beheaded John the Baptist, the Holy Lance and of course the platter and chalice from the Last Supper are some of the others.

"After Fulke's death, it was passed down through his family, before it was granted to Henry VIII in exchange for additional estates in the family's Gloucestershire heartlands. It subsequently fell into ruin. There is no record of it being used by either side in the Civil War, for example. Eventually, the locals started using some of the masonry for their homes and that was that." _[AN: Thinking about it now, I wonder if Fulke was a distant relative of the Peverells of "The Tale of the Three Brothers" fame, and thus of both Harry Potter and the late unlamented Tom Riddle? RM]_

"Thank you, Jenny," Jigger said excitedly. "Do you believe that the links with Merddyn have any basis in fact?"

"Possibly, but we know so little about that period, Jigger. It _is_ called _the Dark Ages_ for a reason, you know!

"Why?"

"Someone has stolen a guide to finding Merddyn's tomb!" George told her. "Not to mention a copy of the _Necronomicon_! The thief is believed to be heading for Whittington."

"Then we had better be getting there too!" Tom said practically. "Let's finish this fine steak and kidney pud first, though."

We did, over which Jenny retold the stories of how when fog covered the throne-like Devil's Chair tor up in the Stipperstones, that meant how Old Nick himself was in residence and it was bad luck to be outdoors. _[AN: While neither ourselves nor Captain Judge were particularly bothered about this, Jason (we are on first name terms these days!) seemed agitated, for obvious reasons looking back on it. RM]_ She also told of the ghost of Wild Eadric the Saxon, who haunts the Stipperstones when England is under threat of invasion. There was even time for the story of Parson Carr of Woolstanton on one side of the Long Mynd hills and Ratlinghope on the other. One January Sunday, he walked back over the Mynd, got lost in the snow and was lucky (or blessed, given his calling) to be found alive twenty-two hours later. In Jenny's excellent retelling, these tales are still worth the hearing, even if it is for the eighty-fifth time.

Later that day, we arrived at Whittington. By the Iron Age hillfort, we found a schoolboy with pallid features, black hair pointed at each side of the head and stroking a cat. The stolen items were tucked under his upper left arm. He could easily have passed for one of these New Romantic types. _[AN: New Romantics was a term given to pop groups like Spandau Ballet. Apparently not looking like a punk rocker made you Lord Byron… RM]_

"Hello, Klarion," Mr Blood said cheerfully, "what are you up doing here?"

"Well, old man, I am going to find Merddyn's grave, break the binding and separate you from _him_. I shall then have Etrigan to command as I will. Teekl and I shall be unstoppable!"

"This was the wrong Merddyn, you idiot! Next time, do your _homework_ more thoroughly.

"Merddyn was a title, not a name!"

"We'll see about that, old man! _What the devil…?_ "

Whilst Klarion was talking, Tom had sneaked up behind Klarion, grabbed him and snatched the book and document.

"Teekl!" Klarion demanded, dropping the cat. His familiar then _changed_ into a bipedal catlike demonic (literally!) monster, at least seven feet tall!

"Men!" barked Captain Judge. "Fellow with the fur, five rounds rapid!" To be honest, the Catapult Cavaliers' weapons of choice would have been no less effective in piercing the thing's hide!

"Allow me!" bellowed Mr Blood. He then stood up tall and began to recite:

" _Gone! Gone! the form of man!_

 _Arise the Demon_ _ **Etrigan!**_ "

As he recited, his body was surrounded by fire, his form changed and his voice deepened. By the time the fire dispersed as the recitation ended, the tall man in the smart suit had been replaced by an eight-foot tall yellow demon, clad in a red jerkin and green kilt. Etrigan promptly hurled himself onto Teekl, snarling out:

 _"_ _Foul fiend of feline countenance,_

 _Now it is time to make thee dance!"_

Admittedly, it was closer to Greco-Roman wrestling than a slow waltz, but Etrigan quickly held, threw and punched Teekl back into feline form. Klarion cast a spell that set a couple of bushes alight, before gathering Teekl. With a quick incantation, a portal in the form of a rune appeared in front of the Witch Boy, which he, familiar in his arms, stepped through. Etrigan exhaled a jet of fire at his back, but the portal had closed before the flames could reach Klarion.

Luckily, the UNIT troops had brought water cannons to deal with the fire before any damage was done. Meanwhile, Etrigan was reciting:

 _"_ _Gone now, O Etrigan!_

 _And rise once more the form of man!"_

As he did so, he was once more bathed in fire and emerged looking and sounding his old self again.

We were curious about Jason Blood's _transformations_ , so he told us the story of how he had been a knight of the Round Table and had studied magic under one Merddyn. Merddyn was the title given to the senior advisor, seer or sorcerer at Camelot. A few men had held the title (sometimes more than one at once), but a later Merddyn was the son of an incubus and wanted both more power and to get rid of his troublesome full demon half-brother Etrigan. When Sir Jason discovered this Merddyn's evil schemes, the stark raving crackers sorcerer had bound demon to knight. Unable either to die (despite numerous attempts at suicide) or to control the transformations into Etrigan, Sir Jason had quickly found himself scorned as Sir Jason o' the Blood, a scourge upon the earth. Eventually, he had found the dastardly half-demon's tomb (I refuse to call him Merddyn any further, as he was unworthy of that title) and an inscription including the poem with the phrases to control the changes into Etrigan and back again. Now, he fights unrighteousness as a powerful mage who can turn into a super strong fire-breathing demon by saying or writing two lines from an incantation.

Whilst Klarion and his pet demon may have escaped, we could return the stolen items to the rightful owners, although the bookseller was happy to donate them to UNIT's Black Archive. We had helped UNIT defend the world and made a new friend in Jason Blood – or should that be two… _[AN: Despite his reputation, Jason Blood is a kind and decent man and Etrigan, whilst surly, generally reserves his worst ire for other monsters and demons. RM]_ All in all, a good day's work. Hearing once more Jenny's old tales of the Shropshire hills and valleys was the icing on the cake.


	4. Chapter 4: The Return of the Hound

Baskerville Hall, Dartmoor, Devon, November 1999

"Are you sure that we need to be here, Mr Holmes?" I asked the Great Detective as a party of us were trudging along in the wilds of the West Country. It was a cold, damp November day and not really the ideal weather for a country walk.

"Yes, Mr Milligan. Watson and I have heard that the Hound has been seen again."

"I thought that you had found that it was a dog in phosphoric paint," Jigger pointed out, "which you promptly shot!" Jigger doesn't approve of violence against animals, even when they are trying to kill you. Not that he should worry on that score. A hellhound would probably be running up to have its head patted after about ten seconds of meeting him.

"Faking a haunting is elementary, Mr Johnson, as you should know from your Bureau. I suspect that it might be a copycat."

What a party we were, by the way. Not only Mr Holmes and his old comrade in arms, but James Bond, Modesty Blaise, Willie Garvin, Emma Peel, the Baker Street Irregulars (not the original street urchins, but a band of former young detectives led by Sherlock's great-grandson Dan Robinson) and the four of us from the Bureau. Oh, and Baskerville, the giant blag dog who was the fifth Irregular. A gentle giant, Baskerville. Whilst braver than Scooby-Doo, he is only marginally more dangerous, unless you have a very weak heart or a severe allergy to canine hair or saliva. Still, he looks intimidating enough. George had brought Timmy and Ranji was perched on Jigger's shoulder. Boko was looking after the rest of Jigger's animals back at the zoo that is his house. Jigger's house I mean, not Boko's.

"What is your plan, Mr 'Olmes?" Willie Garvin still speaks with a cockney accent, despite having lived in posh Maidenhead for several years. Top bloke, Willie. A good man to have around if the bullets start to fly. As is James, come to think of it. I assume that was why he invited them both, plus Willie's old boss Modesty and the formidable Emma, along. They aren't the sort to back down when trouble comes. After all those years in the espionage business (and Modesty and Willie were career criminals before that), you learn to be calm under fire.

"Is there another potential claimant, Great-Grandpa Sherlock?" Dan asked. If his nose was just a trifle more hawk-like, he would be almost a carbon copy of his illustrious grandfather. Tall, dark-haired and with a long, purposeful stride, he is a formidable presence matched with a supersonic brain. A worthy sort, Dan.

"Not that I know of, Dan."

"I say, Holmes, we didn't know Stapleton was either." This was Doctor Watson.

"If it wasn't for the family resemblance, I might not have deduced it," the Great Detective admitted.

For those of you who can't remember the incidents in question, may I recommend Doctor Watson's own account, as passed to his editor Sir Arthur? They tell what happened much better than I can, but I shall do my best to go over the central features. There was an old legend of Hugo Baskerville, Master of Baskerville Hall in the Civil War having sold his soul to the devil in return for his help abducting some poor woman. He was then taken to the abyss by a giant black spectral hound. Serves him right, to be honest. That was not very gentlemanly. After that, a rumour began that the Hound of the Baskervilles would be seen around the time each Master died.

In the 1880s, Sir Charles Baskerville was found dead near the footsteps of a great hound. His heir, Sir Henry Baskerville was nearly killed by a large black dog in phosphoric paint. It turned out that a local naturalist calling himself Stapleton was really Rodger Baskerville, nephew of Charles, cousin of Henry. Since Henry was childless, Rodger was the next in line. The odious oik was apparently drowned fleeing through the mire at night. Again, serves him right!

We reached our destination. In front of the hall was a SHIELD convoy, a familiar tall, slender redhead in a black catsuit awaiting us amongst others. Natalya Romanova was a Soviet defector, now a SHIELD agent under the Americanised name of Natasha Romanoff and the _nom de guerre_ of the Black Widow. Like Emma and Modesty, she looks good for her actual age. The Royal Jelly honey is responsible for the British agents not looking their age, with the treatments given to Natasha in the notorious Soviet Red Room having kept her looking more like twenty-five than the forty-five plus she really is.

"The things you wanted are enclosed, _da_ ," Natasha told us. "I don't know what's in than cage, Jigger, but it seems to be friendly. I get this feeling…"

"Ah, he can communicate telepathically," Jigger admitted. "Everyone, meet an old friend." He pulled away the canvas covering the cage on one of the SHIELD trailers. Inside was a spectral large black dog wagging his tail enthusiastically. "This is the Girt Dog of the Quantock Hills…"

"Hang on," said Liz Spencer, a fellow journalist and one of the Irregulars, "I know the old legends. If you see a Black Dog, it is an omen of your death."

"Not this one, Liz," Jon told her. "The Girt Dogs of Somerset and Dorset love guarding playing children, guiding lost travellers and inebriated farmworkers back home safely and directing impoverished farmers to buried treasure. We befriended this one on a visit to the Quantocks a few years back."

"Pretty rubbish hellhound!" Mickey Denning, a third Irregular jeered.

 _I beg your pardon!_ An irate voice spoke into all our heads. _I'm a heavenhound. We have standards to maintain, you know!_ Quite right, too! Not just any phantom dog can be a heavenhound.

They are an interesting group, the Irregulars. Alongside Dan, there are his best friends Liz and her husband Jeff Webster. Liz, having been raised an ardent women's libber, flatly refused to take Jeff's surname. They spend most of the time calling each other "chauvinist pig" and "little miss militant" respectively. It seems to keep them happy. Both are tall and fair, although Liz is slender and Jeff more muscular in build.

Mickey is short, a couple of years or so longer and with large protuberant ears and close-cropped black hair. He was nicknamed "Mickey Mouse" at school for obvious reasons. A loyal and determined sort, Mickey, but he can be spiky and impetuous.

A good bunch, then, and we get on well. After they left school, a former client Sir Jasper "Jim" Ryde of Old Park House, an old manor near their childhood homes on the outskirts of London, offered them an old outbuilding to convert into a headquarters. Through a mixture of high-tech state of the art technology and the gift for deduction that ran in Dan's blood, they are as much a force to be reckoned with now as they were then. Now, thanks to our old friend the Royal Jelly, they still look like twenty-somethings, instead of forty-somethings.

"Oh, one other thing," said one of the SHIELD agents. "Some naturalist has been nosing around.

"Given what happened in the 1880s, we thought you all might want to know about her."

"Does she claim to be a Stapleton?" Mr Holmes was alert now, leaning forward, his fingers steepled.

"No, she's young – and a bit _odd_. Says that she is called Miss Lovegood, I think."

" _Da!_ I've met Miss Luna Lovegood. _How do you say it? Charmingly eccentric._ "

"Sounds as if she's a friend of yours, James love!" Modesty's got a point, although usually James would be going a lot further than befriending someone named Luna Lovegood.

"I can't place her, Modesty, but then I meet women with similar names all the time!" James is honest to a fault. He always says you can always tell a traitor by the fact they cheat at cards!

I was looking around the place, when a blonde woman, no more than twenty or so, came up. _[AN: Luna was eighteen and had finished at Hogwarts a few months before. RM]_ She had protuberant blue eyes, a dreamy expression and a necklace made from several radishes and a piece of string.

"Hello, I'm Luna Lovegood." The way she said her name had a definite West Country burr to it. Not the full Bristolian roll of the Hollywood pirate, but the warm Devonian version. "Yer be new around 'ere."

"I'm Rex Milligan, freelance journalist and scribe to the Bureau of Paranormal Research," I said. "You must be that naturalist the SHIELD agents were talking about.

"Are you after the Hound of the Baskervilles too?"

" _Arrh_ , that I be! What pray tell do you want to do with him when you've caught him?

"I must dash. The nargles be abroad!" Well, honestly, I ask you…? What the dickens are nargles?

A little later back at the Manor, Sherlock Holmes and his great-grandson were beginning a conflab. "I have been unable to establish anyone with an obvious claim to inherit the title, manor and estate," the Great Detective admitted.

"If we assume that there must be a motive, what else might be going on?" Dan asked in response.

"My old friend Thomas Carnacki always noted that faked hauntings could be used to conceal other criminal activities."

"Fair point, Great-Grandpa. I remember that the faked haunting at Old Park House was concealing a treasure hunt.

"Mickey, I asked you to keep an eye on crime reports for the area. Anything unusual?"

"Nothing, Dan. There are reports of drug smugglers in Plymouth trying to export their goods through Exeter to London.

"That can't be it. We are nowhere near the sea."

"No, but assuming they wish to avoid the A38 and A30, the obvious route would be to go through the country roads through Dartmoor," George pointed out. "That might be a-doing out there." Being in Devon had deepened her own West Country burr as a Dorset lass.

"This road goes between us and another large house, King's Holt, on the way to Exeter," Jeff noted.

"I remember that house from when we Lone Piners got involved in those experimental flying saucer-shaped aircraft the MOD was working on," Jon recalled. "These country lanes are pretty quiet, so perfect for avoiding the police. _[AN: The MOD is the Ministry of Defence. RM]_

"Why would they want to create a scare story though? What would be the point?"

"Per the noticeboards," I remarked, "the House is due to start candlelight processions for local schools shortly followed by carols and mince pies in the Great Hall.

"If there are going to be children, parents and teachers descending en masse some evenings, there would be more chance of officialdom being around. If there are unexpected convoys of vehicles along the local roads, someone important might notice."

" _That's it!_ " Mr Holmes exulted. " _The game's afoot!_ "

We were shivering that night on the cold windswept marshes of Dartmoor, in a ditch hidden from the road. The SHIELD troops other than Natasha were back at the Manor, in case reinforcements were required. Lucky them! It was cold, wet and misty. Poor Ranji was left by the fire in the drawing room in the manor. Monkeys aren't evolved for Dartmoor in November. Neither are humans, quite frankly.

Suddenly, a female voice sounded from behind us: "What be a-doing out here? I be a-wondering if ye are expecting the Hound o' the Baskervilles to appear."

"Good evening, Miss Lovegood," Natasha responded. "This is SHIELD business. We are expecting a party of drug smugglers with a fake hellhound to go past."

" _Arrh_ , I knew the nargles be abroad!" Miss Lovegood chirruped enigmatically. "They thrive on mistletoe, you know." Well, none of us did know. Quite frankly, we were beginning to wonder if she was quite sane.

There was a strange _bang_ sounding and two men appeared to come from nowhere with a large black dog. Seconds later, a flotilla of Ford Transits came in sight. The vans stopped and men got out.

"How did those first two men and the dog get here?" Mickey asked.

"Apparition," said Luna, suddenly sounding much less dreamy. "One of them must have been holding the dog whilst he Apparated. How interesting!

"I assume that the two of them must have Disillusioned themselves."

" _Crystallised Cheesecakes!_ " I groaned. "You are stark raving crackers!"

" _Nyet!_ " Natasha chimed in. "I've heard WAND Agents use those terms. Those men are wizards, _da_?! And you are a witch?"

"That I be! Luna Lovegood, apprentice magical zoologist at your service!"

"Well, whatever," Jigger noted, "it is time to unleash the heavenhound!" With that, he motioned for the Girt Dog to begin to ascend the bank of the ditch.

 _My fellow canine, please come back to the light. I see that you are no hellhound or grave spectre, but a mortal dog made to look like one._ I don't know what happened, but the Girt Dog's appeal worked. The fake Hound came trotting up, with wizards and smugglers following behind, bemused to say the least.

As they approached, the heavenhound came into their view, having reached the top of the ditch. One of the wizards produced a stick that I assumed was a wand and shouted " _Abracadabra!_ " or so I thought. _[AN: It was of course "Avada Kedavra!". RM]_ A green light shot hit the Girt Dog, but had no effect. Luna emerged from the ditch with a shout of " _Stupefy!_ ", her own wand levelled at that wizard. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, struck by a ray of red light from her wand. She then proceeded to engage the second in a kind of duel with lights, levitating objects and other weird phenomena.

A couple of the smugglers were aiming their pistols at Luna, but James' Walther PPK snarled twice and both fell lifeless to the ground, a red dot precisely between each set of eyes. Then the smugglers reached the ditch and the melee began!

Willie, the best knife thrower in the business, produced two knives from a harness around his chest and hurled them into the chest and neck respectively of two smugglers. Modesty, as lethal as her old friend, had her MAB Brevete automatic pistol in her right hand and her kongo assault baton in her left. She used the latter to catch one of our opponents under the chin and then deftly rotated her arm like a windmill blade to whack him firmly on the back of the neck as he fell. Brutally effective, that. Emma and James were using automatics, fists and feet to good effect, both having a good working knowledge of judo, boxing and some karate. Sherlock Holmes had pistol in one hand and his heavy cane in the other, still the force of nature that had the late Victorian underworld cowering in fear. Doctor Watson was offering covering fire. Natasha was tasering one smuggler with one of her Widow's Bites (on each wrist was an armguard with various handy gadgets thus called), before using the climbing rope of the other as a garrotte cord on a chap who was barking orders and seemed to be in command. One press of Natasha's knee, followed by a sickening snap and he spoke no more commands in this life.

As for the rest of us, Dan knows judo, Jeff boxing and Liz and Mickey are both handy in a scrap. Jon is blessed with the famous reserves of hidden strength associated with the tall and slender. George is a tomboy with a love of rough and tumble scrapping. As for Jigger and me, we played fly-half and right wing three-quarters respectively for the Colts XV at Sheldrake. We both know how to tackle! The smugglers who tried anything with us were disarmed and out for the count in no time at all. The dogs, mortal and immortal alike, were also using legs and jaws to good effect.

Meanwhile, other wizards in formal looking black robes began appearing out of nowhere. The leader seemed to be a tall bespectacled man of about Luna's age, with black hair as messy as Jon's blonde, piercing green eyes and a jagged scar like a lightning bolt on his forehead. As they arrived, the second smuggler, who was already being bested by Luna, seemed distracted and was easily felled at another shout of " _Stupefy!_ " from his opponent.

"Hello, Harry," she said to the bespectacled wizard, "apparently a couple of wizards were faking a haunting to cover up a muggle drug smuggling ring. Not very nice of them, but there you are.

"Please can you be a dear and take these two into custody for me? Thank you."

"Of course, Luna. It will be my pleasure.

"But tell me who these new friends of yours are?"

"Oh, this is a Natasha Romanoff, an Agent of SHIELD. I've never seen her with a shield…"

"You wouldn't have, Luna. It's an acronym, although the exact words that spell out S.H.I.E.L.D. initially are subject to change. We know about them at the Auror Office, as we occasionally liaise with WAND, their Wizardry, Alchemy and Necromancy Department.

"From them, we have heard tales of the infamous Black Widow…"

"As we have of the equally infamous Master of Death!" Natasha retorted. "It's good to meet you, Mr Potter."

"Likewise. And the rest of you?"

Once everyone had been introduced and the Aurors (who apparently are the wizard police force) had taken the wizards to the Ministry of Magic for holding pending trial, the ordinary police were given a special delivery by SHIELD of the smugglers. The non-magical smugglers had their memories magically altered to forget anything about witchcraft being used. It took some discussions between Luna, Harry Potter (as you have probably deduced the bespectacled wizard was called) and a tall black man with a voice like Paul Robeson's named Kingsley Shacklebolt to avoid the same thing happening to us non-SHIELD muggles (as us non-magical types are called) on the side of law and order. Apparently, it was felt that we were all used to dealing with hush-hush business and could make useful muggle allies. They seemed particularly keen to avoid offending us when George said we were friends of Jason Blood, who apparently is classified as _Avoid offending at all costs_ by the White Council. In any event, Kingsley as the Minister of Magic for the United Kingdom approved us keeping our memories, if we promised to share knowledge of their world with only a select group of people. We were happy to so promise.

Luna came up to me afterwards. I was helping Jigger feed the canines, well the mortal ones. The Girt Dog was wagging his tail cheerfully. He doesn't like drug smugglers much, so was glad some were out of circulation for a while at least (or, if they had been taken down by those of the spy contingent, probably permanently). The fake Hound was also doing better for a good bath and plenty of food. Doctor Watson had promptly adopted him, so all was well.

"Mr Milligan," Luna began, "my father runs a wizard paper, _The Quibbler_. I would like to arrange a meeting between the two of you. No wizard newspaper has ever had a Muggle Correspondent before. Would you be interested in the position?"

"Firstly, call me Rex, Ms Lovegood. Secondly, what does your father have to say about your offer?"

"Then call me Luna, Rex! I'm sure the thought of having a Muggle Correspondent would get my dad on board at once. Besides, he was forced into acting against his conscience in a recent wizard conflict. I want someone to keep an eye on him for me.

"There is something about you that makes me feel that you are the man for the job.

"Now, I must warn you that my father is somewhat _eccentric_ …"

Luna Lovegood may be as mad as a box of frogs, but you can't help liking her all the same. _[AN: it goes without saying, but I got the job. Xenophilius Lovegood is certainly eccentric, but a good editor. Luna is still, well, Luna, but is also one of the best friends I'll ever have. RM]_


	5. Chapter 5: Night at the Museum

August 2005, Gotham City

"The best thing about Gotham City," George grumbled, "is that we don't have to live here."

I agree with George. Look, I know that there are some people who love the American Gothic style of architecture and don't care about the worst crime rate on the planet. Well, until recently. Since the local, err, _Bat population_ became active, the crime rate has fallen. Mind you, the tuppenny-ha'penny criminals have been replaced by the likes of the Joker, the Scarecrow, Poison Ivy and the Riddler. Talk about swings and roundabouts!

"What are you doing in _MY CITY_ , all of you?" The curt bass-baritone growl was unmistakeable.

"Jason Blood asked for our help, Batman," Jigger answered politely. "He is worried about someone he calls Ra's Al-Ghul…"

"Ra's? Why would the League of Assassins interest the Bureau of Paranormal Research?"

"That would be their question too, old friend," Jason interrupted, having arrived. "I asked these four and some other old friends of ours…"

" _Jinkies!_ Good to see you all again."

"Err, Velma, you do know if Jason Blood calls us for assistance, that usually means _demons_ are likely to be involved. Scoob and I are allergic to demons! No offence, Mr Blood."

"Right, Raggy!"

Yes, Mystery Inc. were also on the guest list. That was a relief in many ways. Batman will admit to working well with them, as he does with Jason. At least, he should be in a good mood…

"'Ello squires, I could murder a drinkie…" Any thought of Batman feeling decent today had vanished with those words.

"Constantine?! I thought I told you to stay out of Gotham!"

"Now, Batman, is that any way to treat an old friend?!" John Constantine is instantly recognisable, with his Scouse accent, blonde hair in a John Lennon cut and dirty yellow mac. The ever-present lit cigarette was in the corner of his mouth.

"We are **_NOT Friends!_** "

"Would you like to say that any louder, you chiropteran clodpoll?!" I erupted, my patience exhausted. Batman is a worthy sort, but honestly would try the patience of a saint. "There might be a couple of people in Metropolis who haven't heard you!"

"I don't appreciate sarcasm, Mr Milligan!"

"Well, I don't appreciate grumpy masked vigilantes, yet here you are!"

"Constantine is still not my friend and I want him out of my city!"

"If my boyfriend goes, so do I!" This was a tall dark brunette in fishnets, short black skirt, white blouse, black bow tie, black jacket and a magician's hat. Zatanna Zatara is both John's girlfriend and an old friend of Batman. This could get messy…

"You are always welcome, Zee," Batman assured her. "It is just a shame about the _excess baggage!_ "

"Jason," Jon spoke with typical common sense, "just what is Ra's Al-Ghul doing that has you more than usually concerned about him?"

Ra's Al-Ghul is the apparently immortal leader of the organisation called the League of Assassins. As you can probably guess, these are not nice people. Quite the opposite in fact. Anyway, Ra's Al-Ghul (the Arabic for "The Demon's Head", so probably an alias) is an eco-warrior with a private army. He is stark raving crackers. Ra's has at least two known children, Nyssa Raatko and Talia Al-Ghul, both in the same line of work. Talia is one of his most loyal lieutenants. Nyssa's status is unknown.

"Jon, I have heard that Ra's is trying to steal something from the Gotham Museum. An ancient scroll that has not yet been translated, but is believed to be the means to summon Nyarlathotep. Can you imagine what Ra's can do with that?"

"Quite frankly, I wouldn't want to imagine that," Daphne shivered. I can't blame her. Ra's with a tame Outer God is a truly horrific thought!

"Don't worry!" Fred was cheerier than the rest of us. "I'll set a trap!"

"I thought you were telling us not to worry," I grumbled. "Then you mentioned one of your asinine contraptions! Your traps are about as successful as Staggers' latest unworkable gadget!"

"My cousin Jupiter built all sorts of things from the family salvage yard…"

"Last time I checked," George interrupted, "Jupiter was in the Three Investigators, not Mystery Inc!"

" _Details!_ I'm off to hunt for _clues…_ "

"Fred, we don't even have a crime scene yet!" Velma, as usual, was the sensible one. "Looking for clues before Ra's has committed any crime is unlikely to be successful.

"Come on, gang, let's go to the museum and await the Demon's Head…"

" _Zoinks!_ Velma, you remember what I said about demons…"

" _Reah, Raggy! Ro ray, Relma!"_

"Not even for two boxes of Scooby snacks apiece…?"

We all reached the Museum, so bribery obviously worked wonders. The scroll was in a display case, in the miscellaneous antiquities selection. These were artefacts that the scholars knew were old, but not exactly from where and whence they came!

Mystery Inc, Jason (who lives in Gotham these days and is well-known to the museum staff as a scholar of antiquities, albeit not a sorcerer and knight – needless to say, they also don't know about Etrigan) and Batman managed to persuade the staff that we had credible evidence of an attempted theft. I'm not sure they liked the idea of John Constantine (somewhat shabbily dressed and reeking of tobacco) as a security guard, but took the threat seriously enough to allow us to stay for the night.

Once the building had closed, Fred set about setting his latest trap. It seemed to involve ropes and a couple of sheets in tarpaulin he kept in the Mystery Machine, wrapped around various pillars in the room. He seemed most put out when we said that museum exhibits were not to be used. Well, would you want that prize specimen of genus clodpoll getting his hands on an ancient vase or suit of armour?

Jason, John and Zatanna were rather more practically casting various security and detection spells. Jon, George and Jigger were setting up their devices for checking for supernatural phenomena. The Lazarus pits that grant Ra's renewed youth and strength when he bathes in them leave a trace on him that generates a type of radiation one of Jon's gadgets can detect. Look, Jon's the physicist, not me. If you want a detailed explanation, ask him. I can't promise that you will understand the answer, though!

Night had descended on Gotham City. We were concealed in the museum near the scroll. Suddenly Jon's gadget picked something up. A light appeared above a skylight above the museum's atrium. There was the blast of an explosion from above our heads and glass showered down. Every alarm in the place seemed to go off. A climbing rope descended and a massive bald chap descended ahead of a shorter (but still tall) man in a high-collared cloak. As moonlight briefly illuminated this second man's face, it showed a neat black goatee and moustache, grey sideburns and a mane of black hair. His face was largely unlined, but there was a sense of immense age in his green eyes. This was of course the infamous Ra's Al-Ghul. The big bald brute was his manservant and enforcer Ubu.

Once Ra's was on the ground, a few black-clad underlings descended after him. Ra's produced an old-fashioned electric torch and started looking towards the display cases. "There it is!" he yelled, pointing at the scroll. "Get it before the authorities come!"

"Too late, Ra's!" growled Batman, emerging from cover.

" _Detective! How tiresome!_

"Stop him, men!"

 _"_ _Ria ot eci! Knis otni roolf!_ " Zatanna yelled, also leaving her hiding place. Within seconds, a couple of Ra's' thugs had sunk up to their necks into the floor and three others had found themselves skidding about another part of the floor that had suddenly developed a thick layer of sheet ice. Luckily, that part of the floor was devoid of exhibits, but not of pillars, into which the underlings all eventually collided, after a couple of minutes of resembling gibbons on ice skates.

Ubu, meanwhile, sent his massive bulk crashing into the display case holding the scroll. It didn't even dent! Not only was in reinforced glass, but John had added some sort of ward that kept the glass from shattering. _[AN: No, I don't know what warding was used, and knowing John Constantine, I don't want to know! RM]_

"Why isn't it breaking?!" snapped the increasingly irritated Ra's.

"That would be partly down to me, squire!"

"You brought the Witch and the Wizard, Detective? Very clever! Anyone else?"

"Actually, _I_ brought _them!_

 _Gone! Gone! the form of man!_

 _Arise the Demon_ _ **Etrigan!**_ "

Once Etrigan was on the scene, the battle should have been over. It was, however, time for Fred to activate his latest prefabricated death-trap. Suddenly, four lariats tightened and four figures were hanging upside down – Batman, John, Zatanna and Etrigan! Meanwhile, one of the heavy tarpaulin sheets had landed directly on top of Mystery Inc and us. None of the League of Assassins was affected in anyway, as the second had landed on two waxwork Egyptian pharaohs. The prize specimen had done it again!

"Bloody 'ell!" muttered John. Etrigan was more eloquent:

 _"_ _Here am I, hanging upside down,_

 _Fred'ric Jones is a complete clown!"_

If I was being hyper-critical, _jester_ or _fool_ would have fitted the whole medieval vibe rather better, but Etrigan does like his rhymes!

"Why do my traps never work?"

"If I knew the answer to that one, Fred," I answered honestly, "I would have told you years ago!"

Whilst we were busy trying to untangle ourselves from the tarpaulin, Zatanna was calling out: " _Taolf ni ria!_ " Once she, Batman, John and Etrigan were lighter than air, she called for Batman to cut the rope around his feet and use batarangs to free her and the other two. Once free, they all drifted down to the ground – if Etrigan could ever be compared to a gently falling Autumn leaf, which he usually wouldn't be. Not to his face, anyway.

At any rate, once on the ground, the four champions of truth, justice and whatever John Constantine is fighting for today (usually himself to be honest) quickly set to work. John muttered a couple of quick incantations that had the rechargeable power drill one of Ra's henchmen was trying to use (with no obvious effect) to cut into the relevant display case fly out of his hands and dance around in the air. Zatanna was once more covering the floor with ice.

One of the hoodlums tried approaching us with a gun. Daphne, who had dashed off to the side after escaping her fiancé's latest fiasco, showed some new skills she had learned from a mutual friend in California (one who looked like a blonde version of Daphne, come to think of it) by leaping into the air and kicking him in the wrist. Since that wrist was attached to his gun hand, his automatic was sent up into the air. Jigger showed his time on the cricket field was not wasted back at Sheldrake (when it was still Sheldrake Grammar School and not Sheldrake Academy of Excellence – Sir William Sheldrake must be turning in his grave!), deftly catching the gun and pointing it at its previous holder. He surrendered quickly. No surprise there. Jigger's my best friend, but even I admit that he is as beefy as a bulldozer – and about as pretty.

Meanwhile, Batman was chasing Ra's Al-Ghul, who had abandoned his plans to steal the scroll. Etrigan was fighting Ubu. No contest, really. I've seen Etrigan spar with Superman, Wonder Woman and Thor, all bouts on equal terms. It didn't take long for a punch to the gut to have Ubu tripping backwards over a cowering Shaggy and Scooby. He staggered to his feet, only for a blow to the jaw from Etrigan to send him flying twenty feet into a pillar.

 _"_ _The man who serves Ra's Al-Ghul,_

 _He must be nothing but a fool!"_

Batman had Ra's heading for the climbing rope. A throw of a batarangs and the rope was cut above the eco-terrorist's head.

"Surrender, Ra's!"

" _Until the next time, Detective!"_

At that parting comment, a rope ladder descended through the skylight. Ra's clung on to the bottom as it was lifted into the sky. By the time Batman had reached the spot where Ra's has been, he was almost at the ceiling. The ladder was attached to a hovering helicopter. Once Ra's was through the skylight and above the roof, the helicopter sped away.

With Etrigan quickly reverting to Jason Blood, we handed Ubu and the other captured members of the League of Assassins over to the Gotham City Police Department. The scroll was quickly placed in the safe-keeping of a friend in Greenwich Village, New York. _[AN: You will not be surprised to learn that even Ra's Al-Ghul has never tried stealing from Doctor Stephen Strange… RM]_ Evil was foiled. Why, Batman was in such a good mood he forgot to order John Constantine out of Gotham for a full ten minutes after Ra's escaped.


	6. Chapter 6: The Crown Jewels Caper

The Tower of London, October 2017

As I've said before, Luna Scamander is someone you can't help liking. That doesn't mean she can't drive you round the bend!

"Luna, what have I told you about humming 'I'm 'Enery the Eighth, I am, I am' in the Tower of London?"

"It annoys the ghosts. Why I don't know. I thought the song was about the eighth Henry to marry a serial widow?"

"It is, but the monarch Henry the Eighth isn't exactly popular in these parts. Can you hum something else?"

"Certainly, Rex. I'll even sing something. ' _Oh, in the Tower of London large as life…_ "

" _Fossilised Fishhooks!_ _Not that one!_ "

"Why?"

"Because I hate that bloody song, that's why!" The distinctive blend of France, Norfolk and Kent in the accent told us that the ghost of Anne Boleyn had joined us. "I neither stayed nor was held in the Bloody Tower when I was alive and I rarely walk there now."

"What a shame. It is a charming image of you walking the Bloody Tower with your…"

" _Luna!_ Queen Anne is understandably rather _sensitive_ on that subject!"

"Of course, Master Milligan. Having a detachable head might be useful for scaring schoolchildren, but I would prefer to have died of a grand old age. Unfortunately, I fell for that thrice-accursed swine…" I shall spare you the rest of Queen Anne's description of her husband, which was understandably not particularly complimentary. There are quite a few ghosts in the Tower of London who share an intense dislike for King Henry VIII and for pretty much identical reasons.

As I've also said before, Luna is a dear friend of mine. In the lounge in the Scamander home, Luna has a display of wizard photographs of her family and friends displayed. Obviously, the photos of Luna's father, husband and twin boys have pride of place, but I was touched to see that I was alongside the likes of the Potters, Weasleys and Longbottoms as close friends. I am a godfather to the twins and good friends with Luna and Rolf. Look, it is hard _not_ to be fond of Luna. She has a refreshing (and often unique!) view of the world.

Come to think of it, I haven't explained why we were in the Tower. Luna and I had been asked by Kate Stewart of UNIT to alert the ghosts to keep a look-out for some oik who might be trying to steal the Crown Jewels. Obviously, the Yeoman Warders had been informed. _[AN: Contrary to popular belief, the Yeoman Warders, or Beefeaters, are not the Yeomen of the Guard. The former protects the Tower of London and the latter help guard the Monarch. RM]_ Kate, however, felt that the ghosts would be good at sneaking around unobserved. Since I had interviewed a few them for my "executed Tudors" series in the Quibbler, Luna and I were asked to approach the ghosts' acknowledged community leader, Anne Boleyn.

"Queen Anne, Luna and I have been contacted by Kate Stewart to ask you if you could gather a party of the ghosts to keep an eye on the Jewels' House. She has had some intelligence to suggest that a thief is going to attempt to steal the Crown Jewels."

"I would be delighted to assist her, Master Milligan. Now, I would be most grateful if you and Mistress Scamander will walk with me awhile. My brother and sister-in-law are good company, as are many of the other ghosts, but it is good to meet the living sometimes. Scaring tourists apart, there is not much else to do other than keeping Katherine Howard from encouraging Prince Richard into more tomfoolery.

"So, Mistress Scamander, how is Gryffindor doing in the House Cup…" You can take the witch out of Hogwarts, but you can't take Hogwarts out of the witch!

"They are currently second-placed to Ravenclaw, as they should be, your highness." The two of them do tend to banter about whether Gryffindor or Ravenclaw is better. House loyalties and all that.

After a lengthy stroll and natter, the three of us returned to the courtyard. Whilst Luna and I spoke to Kate, Queen Anne rounded up the likes of Viscount and Lady Rochford, Katherine Howard, the Duke of Clarence, the Countess of Salisbury, Protector Somerset, Lady Jane Grey, the Duke of Monmouth, the Earl of Derwentwater and Lord Kenmure to keep an eye on the Jewel House. For a bunch of executed traitors (and I would not use that word to describe some of the above!), they are a good crowd.

Meanwhile, Luna and I were talking to Kate Stewart. She is a scientist, but carries the same dignified authority of her late father Brigadier Sir Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart. Worthy sorts, both. The Doctor counts them as good friends and he is a very good judge of character.

"So, Kate, you forgot to tell us who we are supposed to be looking for," I reminded her.

"Anyone, Rex. Have you heard of Jervis Tetch?"

"He is the Mad Hatter, one of Batman's more frequent adversaries. A rogue with a love of hats and tea parties and a positive obsession with the oeuvre of Lewis Carroll, as well as a former research scientist who has developed methods of remote mind-control.

"I take it he is the thief? If so, we _literally_ could be looking for _anyone_!"

At that point, a familiar Hampshire burr sounded from behind us. "Master Milligan, Queen Anne asked me to tell you that there is a coach party of school children running amok in the Jewel House. Even the teachers are joining in trying to break the security glass." Edward Seymour, 1st Duke of Somerset, Lord Protector of England and Wales, was the sister of Jane Seymour, the woman Henry VIII proposed to the day after Anne Boleyn's execution on trumped-up charges. Not very gentlemanly, that. In any event, Edward was later made Lord Protector for the minority of his nephew Edward VI. Long before that ended, however, Protector Somerset was removed in a coup and later beheaded on ludicrous charges. His nephew recorded the execution in his diary in a manner he would have used for writing that it was somewhat cloudier than usual. Very much a chip off the old block. Protector Somerset was buried next to Anne Boleyn, which appeals to both individuals' senses of dark humour.

"I'll call the troops out," Kate declared.

"Thank you, your Grace," I said politely to Protector Somerset. "Kate, can you get hold of whatever is on the children and teachers to control their behaviour? We can then follow the signals back to Mr Tetch.

"Your Grace, we might have a job for you and the other ghosts…"

After the unruly mob was finally subdued, the cause of their behaviour was revealed to be miniature radio transmitters hidden behind each right ear. The signal was traced back to Tower Hill, where the street cameras showed the short, red-haired figure of Jervis Tetch dressed as a version of the classic Lewis Carroll Mad Hatter sitting on a bench. Funnily enough, Mr Jefferson of Storybrooke does not greatly resemble said classic image. Back at the Tower, however, it was time for action!

"May I sit here?" Jervis Tetch merely nodded. He then saw a lady in Tudor period dress sit beside him with other ladies and gentlemen in clothing from approximately 1470 through 1720 gathering around them. "I was just leaving anyway."

"Your plans have been foiled then," said the lady beside him. "Well, there are consequences for trying to steal the Crown Jewels, Mr Tetch…" Anne Boleyn (for it was she) and her fellow ghosts promptly removed their heads and tucked them underneath their arms. Mr Tetch got up screaming – and ran straight into Kate, Luna, me, a UNIT guard party and a compliment of the Yeoman Warders. He was to be placed under police guard on the next plane back to Gotham City – and Arkham Asylum!

"Thank you for your help, Queen Anne," I said to Anne Boleyn as Luna and I were taking our leave of the Tower.

"Anytime, Master Milligan, Mistress Scamander," she replied. "It was a pleasure to do a haunting for something other than amusement for once."

"It was indeed a fun day. _Petrified Paintpots! Luna! No! Don't whistle that tune here! You'll start him singing…_ "

" _I have a song to sing, O!_ " sack the ghost of poor lovelorn jester Jack Point. It is a good song and he has a pleasant light baritone voice still, but even so…

Luna Scamander is quite possibly the most infuriating person I've ever met. And I wouldn't want her any other way!

Storybrooke, Maine, January 2018

Whilst the British wizard world is in exile, I am staying in Storybrooke with the Scamander-Lovegood family and others, keeping _The Quibbler_ going as the journal of the Ministry of Magic in Exile. I am billeted with Zelena the former Wicked Witch of the West. Not only is she a charming host with an English accent, but she even knows how to make a cup of tea that tastes like tea. If I closed my eyes, I could be back home.

Jon, George and Jigger have been to visit, the first bringing Penny with him. We introduced Henry and his friends to "Old Jamaica" ginger beer. I'm not sure what they made of it, but Killian Jones quickly acquired a taste for it.

To my wizard friends, I say this as an adopted outsider. If my life has taught me anything, it is a lesson I learned on the rugby and cricket pitches at Sheldrake Grammar. Play hard, play fair and never give up until the match is over. Or as my Lone Piner friends would put it, "Always be true to each other whatever happens". Lucius Malfoy, Delores Umbridge and their friends will never understand that fairness, loyalty and friendship make people stronger. That is why you shall defeat them and we shall all return home.

Rex Milligan, Muggle Correspondent of _The Quibbler_ (and never prouder of that title).

Author's Notes: Having writer's block with Chapter 4 of "Exile and Return" (hopefully now overcome), I thought I would try an anthology story in which Rex Milligan's battered exercise books yielded their tales of chaos surrounding The Quibbler's muggle correspondent. Rex Milligan is a 1950s Grammar school boy created by Anthony Buckeridge of "Jennings" fame. A perpetually-bemused young man in his early teens writing about the insanities of school life in the patent Buckeridge "school slang", he is a fine character, sadly overshadowed by the boarding school antics of JCT Jennings. As reimagined as a kind of English Carl Kolchak, he is great fun to write for.

The Girt Dogs (Great Dogs) of Somerset and Dorset, by the way, are generally portrayed as benevolent and not the usual harbingers of death. Since they would indeed be "rubbish" hellhounds, I decided that they must come from the heavenly kennels. The Girt Dog of the Quantocks is depicted in folklore as "the protector of children", although not as telepathic.

I hope you enjoyed the story.


End file.
